


Sour Grapes

by Umerue



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU, F/M, Female Protagonist, King Bran the Broken's A+ politics, Marriage of Convenience, Mental Health Issues, Politics, Post Season 8, Post-Canon Fix-It, Queen of Thorns is not dead, Satire, The Citadel is not happy either, The Faith is unhappy, The Reach is very unhappy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2020-11-25 21:35:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20919002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Umerue/pseuds/Umerue
Summary: The Reach is not empty like Ser Davos claimed. After the Sept of Baelor exploded and Lannisters sacked Highgarden, it's filled with very unhappy widows, old men, and one spinster who inherited the largest warship fleet in Westeros.Desmera Redwyne thought she had escaped the family ambition of marrying kings (poor cousin Margaery!) until she storms uninvited to nobles' meeting to judge her queen's betrayers and choose a new ruler. But after a nay vote, thoughtless promise of passage and one demented old lord, Desmara finds she has accidentally severed her island from the rest of the Kingdoms, becoming number 1 enemy of the new government. But she is Olenna Tyrell's granddaughter, and she will manage. Since the Master of Coin can't read or write, the high import taxes are mostly theoretical. And she does hold all the Arbor Red and Arbor Gold. In a realm full of alcoholic Hands and soldiers, it's a weapon, too.Jon Snow was prepared to a lifetime at the Wall. He was not prepared to a lifetime in Arbor.





	1. Nobles' council

**Author's Note:**

> The disparity between Olenna Tyrell's two sets of grandchildren is intriguing. 
> 
> Loras Tyrell is the Knight of Flowers. Margaery Tyrell marries three kings.
> 
> The heirs of Westeros' richest island, Horas and Hobber Redwyne are nicknamed Horror and Slobber. Desmara has a very nice dowry, but her only suitor is Tywin Lannister's cousin's son, a knight who decides he prefers to marry a Frey girl instead.
> 
> Why? So I decided to write a story about women who were left behind in the war. Of widows, old men, and child-lords ruling the Reach without necessary training, but making do. The story has a typical GoT / ASOIAF warnings and themes. I haven't finished the story yet, but I don't expect anything close to Ramsay-levels of disturbing. I'm not a native speaker, and I don't have a beta, so there will be grammatical errors I'm unable to catch with spellcheck. 
> 
> As always, I'm happy to hear your comments and ideas because they make writing fun.

They had forgotten her invite.

Desmara Redwyne did not expect a group of Essosi eunuchs to understand how inheritance laws worked in Seven Kingdoms, but Samwell Tarly did not have any excuses. He had served her lord father as a page for a week before Horas and Hobber made him cry. Was he afraid that Desmara was going to poke him with a sharp stick, too, or was he trying to revenge something? Whatever the reason, it was damn humiliating to find out about this little gathering while she was collecting orders on Eel Alley.

Cursing Tarly to seven hells, Desmara walked straight towards the guards standing at the Dragonpit entrance. There were men from northern army, wearing their moth-eaten furs and woollen cloaks, and trying to appear sombre as if they had not spent the last night guzzling down her wine. The men standing on guard were Unsullied; not good. She did not have a high opinion of her late grandmother’s allies after Daenerys Targaryen had burned the city and Jon Snow, so-called Aegon, had killed her. Burnings, murder and general madness tended to follow that House. It was good that grandmother had wiggled out of her engagement with prince Daeron and seduced Luthor Tyrell. But still, Olenna had sworn their House to Queen Daenerys, and it required lip service which did not relate to Desmera’s personal views.  
“Open the doors.”, she ordered, stopping in front of the Unsullied.  
They looked like they didn’t understand a word of common.  
“Open the doors.”, Desmara repeated, sharper. “I came for the judgement.”  
“Why a pretty girl like you would want to go there?”, a curious voice called out to her.  
She glanced on the left. He was a sell sword with broken nose, maybe a dozen years older than her. Hard and tall and lean like a blade. Likely good, she judged. Unskilled mercenaries did not survive old enough to get lines on the forehead.  
“To judge, of course.”  
“Mm. Why not? My last employer got jailed again, and I need to get paid.”, he drawled. “What’s in it for me, if I get you in?”  
“A barrel of Arbor Gold.”, she replied. “And before you try to haggle, I know the whole city is as dry as the Dornish desert. There has not been a single shipment after the sept exploded.”  
Queen Cersei had written to her, calling her all sorts of names, but she had blown up Desmera’s whole kin, making her the heir of Arbor and Highgarden because she was the only one left. Then the cunt sent her Kingslayer brother to invade her lands and kill her grandmother. The last thing she was going to do was to send them wine in thanks.  
He smiled, giving her an appreciative small nod.  
“Ser Bronn of Blackwater in your service, my lady. Now, these buggers here are stubborn lot and don’t understand the lure of a pretty woman and a fine wine, but I happen to know another way in. Found it when I was working for the late Queen Cersei’s security.”  
“I wish you had failed sooner, then.”, Desmera remarked sharply.  
“It was falling rock which killed her, not me. I’m always loyal to whoever pays me the most, and right now, I fancy a drink. Come on. Sooner I get you in, sooner I can wet my throat.”, he said, pulling her arm.  
Giving an evil glare at Unsullied, Desmera followed the dubious knight.

\--

The meeting had already started when she climbed down from a broken archway, and it was as bad as she had expected. Or perhaps worse.

“Without you and your men, we would have lost the war against the dead. This country owns you a debt we can never repay. Let us try. There is land in the Reach, good land. The people who used to live there are gone—”, an old man spoke with thick Flea Bottom accent. His skin was windburned; a sailor, then.  
Suppressing the urge to hit the man who was trying to give away her lands, Desmara glided past him and took the seat he had just vacated. She smiled and said assertively:  
“I haven’t had time to talk with all my bannermen, but the Reach will gladly welcome new workers on our fields. I believe all kingdoms feel the same.”  
“Lady Desmera!”, Samwell Tyrell exclaimed. He had enough to shame to blush.  
“I’m disappointed to see how short your memory is, Samwell. Your father once hoped to marry us, and now you didn’t bother to invite the Lord Paramount of the Mander, your own liege lord, even though we were sworn to queen Daenerys.”, Desmera was sharp. She looked at the gathered nobles, noticing the Stark overrepresentation. It was an ill omen.  
“Our queen was grievously betrayed. I see the treacherous Hand here, but where is the murderer?”, she asked. “I expected to see them both here to be judged, unless Aegon has already been executed.”  
The Starks turned to look at her, and the small dark one placed a hand on her sword.  
“We just discussed the issue, and decided that only the rightful ruler of the realm may judge Jon Snow. I suggest…”, the Imp began to talk.

She had not taken part of politics before the explosion, but this was worse than any stories her grandmother had told her before sending her to Arbor to hide from Lannisters. Much worse. Tyrion Lannister, a Hand who had caused his monarch’s death twice, was spurting shit out of his mouth. How could he seriously suggest that they should choose a cripple because he had ‘a good story’? How could anyone listen to his advice? Desmera didn’t think Edmure would be a good king, and she didn’t like anything Samwell Tarly said, but a cripple who could not have children was an advertisement for a succession war in less than a generation! She did not know what this Three-Eyed Raven-thing meant, but it sounded like something men came up with in their cups.  
“Bran has no interest in ruling, and he can’t father children.”, Sansa Stark disagreed.  
At least someone had sense. But despite Sansa’s reasonable argument, the Imp started ranting how sons of kings were bad and decreed that from now on, the crown would not be inherited but nobles would choose their leader. And then he called a vote.  
“Aye.”  
“Aye.”  
“Aye.”  
It was like watching a barrel roll down a steep hill. Unstoppable catastrophe just waiting to happen. Desmera could not believe it. All around her, what remained of the nobles of Westeros, agreed to Tyrion Lannister’s suggestion to choose a king who didn’t want to rule and whose greatest feat was falling from a high tower. She watched Sansa Stark state the Northern independence, and her brother grant it with a nod.  
“Aye.”, Yara Greyjoy said, looking like she had swallowed piss.  
The last vote was hers.  
“Nay.”, Desmera cried out. “The Reach has had her share of war. My people have bled for three kings and two queens after King Robert died. ‘A good story’?!? Are you out of your mind, Lannister?”, she demanded angrily. “Stories don’t feed people or work to rebuild homes. Inspiration is not worth shit. You might have fooled others to forget you are only talking to save your own head, but I know nobody becomes a good king by falling from a tower. It requires work and dedication. I don’t want a good story, I want to hear plans about rebuilding, paying the Crown’s debts, establishing safe routes for traders and coming to an agreement with the Faith on the position of Poor Fellows and Warrior’s Sons.”  
The crippled boy looked at her, his eyes odd and glazy.  
“I do not serve the Seven.”, he replied.  
“Then you are not my King.”, a tired certainty settled on Desmera’s shoulders. “My lords will never accept a king not crowned by the Faith.”  
She stood up. This was another catastrophe in the making, again, and Desmera had never found much joy in ambition. She had been the freckled granddaughter with bright copper hair, while cousin Margaery was pretty enough to marry a king and finally secure the Reacher lords a position close to throne they had tried to gain for centuries. Surely, her lords would come up with another plot to seize power soon enough. Desmera had no wish to die in this one.  
“Redwyne Fleet will help you if you wish to leave.”, she said to the Unsullied commander when she passed him and left. She wanted no part of this mess; she would sail home.

\--

Lord Leyton Hightower had wed four times; his second wife had been a Redwyne aunt who died in childbed before Desmera’s birth. It made him her closest male relative still living, and Desmera’s guardian. Lord Leyton had not descended from his tower in more than a decade, spending his days reading books about magic with his oldest daughter Malora, while his oldest son Baelor ruled in all but a name. A true Reacher knight, Ser Baelor was not so uncouth as try to steal her inheritance as the lady of the Arbor, but it did not mean he would not meddle. 

When she had sailed to the mouth of Honeywine to deliver her news, she had not expected her lords to like them. There had been shouting, and pompous speeches, and many arguments on whether she had made the right call. Desmera was not slightest bit surprised when Ser Baelor, Ser Moryn Tyrell, who was the Lord Commander of Oldtown City Watch and her great-nuncle Garth Tyrell began to make noises on how the responsibility of Lord Paramount was too much for young, inexperienced maid as herself. And when the High Septon joined them, Desmera knew her reign had ended. The High Septon had been of House Cuy, sworn to Hightowers, until he shed his earthy name and became a voice of the Seven a fortnight after the explosion. The High Sparrow had wanted the seventy-seven members of Most Devout firmly under his thumb in the Sept of Baelor, resulting in a power vacuum when Cersei ignited wildfire. Even though he did not have a name anymore, the High Septon still remembered his former loyalties and did exactly what Ser Baelor wish. It was rumoured that he had been Ser Baelor’s squire before his sudden religious calling.  
“Since you refused to kneel to Bran the Broken, the title of Lord Paramount is not likely even valid anymore.”, Ser Baelor said. “I’m not blaming you, dear girl, you were put in impossible position.”  
“Indeed, indeed.”, great-nuncle Garth nodded.  
“You did well, my child. The Seven will not accept another godless king on the throne, and House Lannister shall forever burn in the fires of Seven Hells for their sins.”, High Septon told, trying to sound paternal. It would have been easier if he was old enough to grow a proper beard.  
“You pushed us in the corner.”, Ser Moryn was straightforward. “We have no men left to fight if other six kingdoms turn against us.”  
“Five kingdoms. The North left.”, Desmera corrected.  
“We have no reason to believe Sansa Stark would not aid her brother if it comes to war.”, Ser Moryn said.

After her displacement, there was no reason to stay in Oldtown, but her treacherous body betrayed her. Most women were in foul mood, or felt slight pains, but Desmera needed milk of the poppy and spent first two days of her moonblood in her bed, too drugged to stand up. She kept a careful eye on the moon, marking the days to make certain she was at home, but sometimes it was not enough, and she got sick weeks before she should have. Maester Ballabar speculated that the stabbing pain in Desmera’s lower belly in middle of her cycle meant she might have hard time to get pregnant. She wished Maester Ballabar was here now, but her Maester was in Arbor and her hostess, lady Rhonda was useless. The woman did not understand how Desmera could complain about moonblood pain when there was no blood, and had suggested to ask her sister-in-law Malora.  
Desmera did not know if Malora was truly mad, but there were unsettling rumours on how she supposedly divined the future from rabbit entrails or stars in their tower. Nobody had seen the old lord for years, and Hobber had claimed Mad Malora had murdered him with a spell. It was a lie, of course, but it didn’t make Desmera to feel any better when she slowly crept up the stairs towards the tower door.  
  
It was not like she could choose, she thought, trying to pant through the stabbing pain in her belly. She had given the orders to set sail tomorrow morning at first light, and she could not appear in front of her sailors like this. It would ruin five years of hard work. Desmera had been a maiden of sixteen when King Robert died and Horas and Hobber became hostages in King’s Landing. It had been hard for their father to admit his heirs might not come back, and harder for their lady mother, when Desmera’s days at her side had been abruptly cut halt. Lord Paxter had been unyielding, telling that teaching Desmera to play harp would do House Redwyne little good if the twins did not survive. Her lady mother had joined the Tyrells in their attempts to crown Margaery, feeling it was the only way to release her sons from their gilded prison. Desmera had stayed behind, weeping and trying to learn everything her older brothers had been prepared for. She let go of her lovely silk dresses, and her face burned in the sun. She had wept herself to sleep on many days when her lord father looked at her disappointedly, her hands stung from pulling coarse ropes, and the rolling sea made her feel sick. The sea was no place for ladies, lord Paxter’s men said, but Desmera could not be a lady unless Horas and Hobber came home. When Margaery married her first king, Desmera got smacked on her face with a wooden practice sword in a practice fight with her lord father’s eight-year old squire. When Margaery travelled to King’s Landing, and charmed King Joffrey to put lady Sansa aside, Desmera stood at the deck, enchanted, and watched the night sky above Quarth. And when her lady mother wrote to her lord father, telling him to come see Queen Cersei’s trial and bring their sons finally home, Lord Paxter sailed _Arbor Queen_ to Blackwater Bay and told Desmera to hold the command until he came back.  
  
Sometimes when she closed her eyes, she could still see the green explosion over the city. It had been two years, but she would never forget the sickly smell of smoke and wildfire. The explosion threw a piece of Sept of Baelor’s gilded dome in the Blackwater Bay, almost crashing _Sweet Patricia. _Desmera had watched the pillar of smoke rising from that cursed town, while the golden dome sunk underneath the waves, and understood nobody would come back from that.

Pushing away her bad memories, Desmera grimaced, and slowly crept up the last two steps. She pressed a hand against her sore belly and knocked on the tower door.

She was startled when the door was flung wide as soon as her knuckles touched the wood, and an old man with white moustaches and short beard smiled at her.  
“A Redwyne girl.”, he said, sounding almost fond. “Freckles and orange hair.”  
It were not orange, it was copper! There was a world of difference. But Desmera was raised better than to argue with her elders, and she needed help, so she smiled hesitantly and asked for Malora.  
“Of course, of course. Follow me.”, the old man took her arm in his, and began to guide her inside. The round room had no windows, but there was a fireplace and a freshly made bed with white sheets. It looked very inviting, and Desmara wanted nothing but to swallow some milk of the poppy and sleep the pain off. But her host was leading her up the second set of stairs, and she followed, trying her best not to wince when she felt a sharp sting.

When Desmera saw the little glass jars lining the walls of the second-floor chamber, she wanted to turn back. There was a partially dissected frog on the table next to a tall, cruelly curving green candle made from glass. It was burning, but the light was bright and unpleasant, and the colours were wrong. Desmera’s hair looked like a burning flame, and the black of her host’s doublet was so dark it drank away any light touching the fabric. Malora was an aging lady with wild, uncombed hair, and it shone like a bright golden coin. Her white shawl was bright as fresh fallen snow, and she smiled, too, when she turned towards Desmera.  
“You are early. The ship is not in the harbour yet.”, she told Desmera.  
“I fear you are mistaken, or it is another ship you are referring to. I was planning to set sail tomorrow morning, but...”, she glanced helplessly at Lord Leyton, who didn’t show a single sign of doing a courtesy of leaving. “… I was struck by a private condition, and your sister-in-law suggested you could help.”  
“What kind of private condition?”, Lord Leyton asked interestedly.  
Desmera blushed, feeling uncomfortable and embarrassed. Still, she soldiered on.  
“A stabbing pain in my lower stomach. It sometimes happens, even if it is not my time.”, she murmured, looking firmly at her lap.  
“Is your moon blood very painful?”, Malora asked, ignoring all decency and the fact there was a man in the room.  
“Yes.”, Desmera muttered. “I need the milk of the poppy, and bedrest.”  
“It must be the disease of a travelling womb. It travels, you see, when humors are unbalanced, and leaves little pieces behind.”, Lord Leyton stated. “Sometimes there are pieces of womb in the lungs, too! Maester Housten wrote all about it. Very interesting condition!”  
Desmera did not like the sound of it. The thought of her body parts roaming around was sickening in a terrible, fascinating manner.  
“It can’t be healthy for body parts to move around.”, she disagreed, feeling even weaker.  
“It isn’t! What if a babe is planted in woman’s womb, and it then starts to move around?”, Lord Leyton leaned towards her, his eyes shining. “The poor babe might get strangled by his own cord, or worse! Or a leg could be left behind when the womb moves, or fingers!”  
Now she was officially terrified.  
“It sounds horrible!”, Desmera wailed. “How can you stop it?”  
“By balancing the humours, of course! When humours are balanced, the woman’s womb stays in its proper place. Luckily for you, my daughter Malora here is very good with balancing tonics, better than most Maesters in the Citadel.”, the old man declared. “She has seen you coming and prepared a remedy!”  
Desmera could not understand how Malora could have known what was wrong with her – clearly she was not a seer if she had to ask – but the wild-haired daughter was already offering her a steaming mug of something.  
“A pinch of false unicorn root, a bit of red clover and three spoonful of hogweed boiled with wild nettles.”, Malora said. She glanced at her father, and then took a small brown bottle from a shelf.  
“And a bit of milk of the poppy, for pain and calmness.”, Malora decided, and counted two drops in the mug.  
Her expression was odd when she looked at Desmera drinking the potion. Malora looked as victorious as her brothers on the day they first left to sail with father. Giving medicine for strangers was hardly a life-changing event, but maybe Malora was one of the rare women who wanted to study like Maesters and the attempt to cure the horrifying womb disease was a victory for her. Desmera could not think of any other explanation. But whatever the reason was, it was too late to regret because the green tonic was already in her belly and her mouth tasted like grass. She felt a bit odd, and then a terrible tiredness set in her bones. It was the milk of the poppy, Desmara knew, but this one felt quite potent compared to Maester Ballabar’s mixture. The milk of the poppy gave people strange dreams, and Desmera hoped she would not have any; hers were always unpleasant, revolving around the green explosion.  
“I feel a bit… Could I lie down for a moment?”, she asked weakly.  
“Of course, dear child. Malora has prepared everything for you.”, Lord Leyton said, clasping his hands together. He, too, looked like today was his favourite feast day. Peering exhaustedly at the fine embroidery on his doublet, Desmera thought it was oddly fine for an ordinary wear, even for the lord of Hightower.  
But she had no time to ponder, because Malora was already helping her downstairs.  
  
The Mad Maid swiftly undid the buttons of Desmera’s dress, helping her to undress, and pulled a fine linen shirt over her head. The embroidery was odd, Desmera thought sleepily. There were no flowers or vines but odd symbols instead, sewn with red thread. But it felt very nice against her skin.  
“Now, off the bed you go.”, Malora commanded, and Desmera was too tired to care it wasn’t her own bed. “I’ll be upstairs, keeping a watch that everything goes well. Don’t you worry, my potions never fail, and this foolish struggle with kingship will be over before you know it.”  
Her last words made no sense, and Desmera wanted to ask what Malora meant, but she fell asleep before she could voice her question.

\--

She dreamed that it was late in the night, and the strange green candle burned by her bed. The red markings on her shirt shone in the odd bright light, casting an eerie glow. In her dream, the door opened, and a man smelling of Arbor red and strange spices staggered inside. He crashed on the floor next to her bed and hid his face in his hands.  
“I’m sorry.”, his shoulders shook. “I’m sorry, Daenerys. I had to.”  
His voice was thick, and the words slurred, but he did not sound like a Reacher lord.  
“Why I kill everything I love?”, he wept. “All of them are gone.”  
In her dream, Desmera felt pity towards the poor man. She raised her hand, and gently stroked the black curls.  
“I know how you feel.”, she said. “It is hard to be the only one left.”  
He turned, and his grey eyes widened. His pupils were unnaturally large, the black almost swallowing the grey, and he looked at her like she was the Maiden herself.  
“You can’t be real. I saw you die!”, he cried out.  
“I’m not dead. I’m right here. Don’t be a fool.”, Desmera said annoyedly.  
Her sharp reply did not dim his smile; if anything, it only made it brighter. He was very handsome, just like a dream ought to be. Maybe she should take her milk of the poppy from Mad Malora from now on, Desmera thought. This was much nicer dream than her usual ones of trying to warn father of the explosion.  
“A fool I am.”, he agreed, and tentatively touched her hair. He stroked it gently and looked at her with eyes filled with love and longing. He stood up and sat on her bed.  
“Your hair is as bright as ever. Still touched by fire.”, he whispered. “I always thought it beautiful.”  
Desmera smiled, and excitement bubbled in her heart. She was an old maid of twenty-one, too old not to know how dreams like this went, and the suspension was wonderful.  
“You are the first one to call it beautiful. A lord said it is orange.”, she confessed.  
“Knowing you, you probably speared him.”, he said.  
“I wanted to.”, Desmera was surprised. How could he know her so well?  
“Of course.”, he chuckled, taking off his smelly black shirt and throwing it on the floor. “You never suffered fools gladly. I don’t know how you are here, but if death is like this, I am glad.”  
He pressed his mouth on hers, suddenly, and Desmera drew a sharp breath. It felt very real, his warm lips on hers, and his tongue was in her mouth. She glanced towards the door, but he cupped her face in his hands, and peppered little kisses on her freckles.  
“I have missed you so much.”, he murmured, and Desmera let out a giggle, relaxing. It was a dream. It didn’t matter, she thought, her head feeling like it was stuffed full of wool. There was a strange, very pleasing burn in her lower belly, and she ran her hands over his firm, wide shoulders and down his back.  
“Mine.”, she whispered with longing. It was not easy to be the last one left, a maiden whose childhood friends already had two or three babes. She would have wanted a lover like him, beautiful and kind and gentle, but there were only widows left after the war. “I wish you could stay here with me forever.”  
“We should have stayed in that cave.”, he replied fervently. Dreams surely made no sense, Desmera thought, but let it slide because he was kissing her breasts and she liked the sensation. His beard tickled, but in a nice way. The fire in her lower belly burned brighter, and she did not stop to think when she kissed him back, or when she wrapped her legs around his hips. There was no pain in the dream when he broke her maidenhead, she barely noticed it, and it was wonderful until he crashed against her, spent, and murmured in her ear:  
“I love you, Ygritte.”

\--

“_I was a guest under your roof_!”, Desmera knew ladies must not raise their voices, but if there was ever an exception to the rule, it was now.  
“_A maiden under your protection_!”, she screamed at Ser Baelor.  
“Not anymore.” lord Leyton said, sounding frustratingly pleased. “I have the sheets for proof, if you wish.”  
“Father, this is not—“, Ser Baelor turned.  
“There is an obvious solution to the problem; they must marry!”, Lord Leyton announced, still sounding so fucking happy that Desmera wanted to strangle the old man. _He_ had tried, but the old wily man had clearly expected a violent response to his dirty trick and there had been guards waiting on the other side of the door. Desmera did not want to think how many people had heard them. If she thought of it, she would drown herself for sheer shame.  
“I’m not going to wed.”, _he _hissed, still held between two men like a cornered wolf. Desmera could barely look at him.  
“You must.”, Ser Baelor’s plea was urgent. “I apologize on my father’s behalf; he is not in his right mind and I swear none of us knew what he was planning. You were supposed to be escorted to prison, not to his tower, and I don’t know what he put in your drink but..”  
He looked at Desmera, an apology written on his face, and said:  
“I’m sorry to say this, my lady, but when the rumours start to spread, your good name will be dragged through the mud unless you marry Jon Snow.”  
Tears of shame and anger dwelled in Desmera’s eyes and she said brokenly:  
“At least call him Aegon, not a Snow.”  
“I have no words to express my apologies, my lady, but… If it is any consolation to you, I am not someone fit to marry. I loved two women, and killed them both.”, he sounded earnest, but his voice was thick with self-pity, and it only added to Desmera’s urge to scream herself to death. He was a man! Men did not have maidenheads, and nobody would call him a whore and ruin his chances to marry for this!  
“I hear you.”, she said woodenly. “But your answer does not solve the problem, prince Aegon. To be honest, I don’t even know how you ended up in here. I sought a remedy for a private problem, and Malora gave me a tonic. I thought I was having an odd poppy dream.”  
Desmera saw him flinch when she called him prince Aegon. But if she had to gather the shreds of her ruined honour and marry a man who had been tricked to bed her, she would not call him a bastard. If she married a bastard, grandmother Olenna would kill her.  
“The Unsullied.”, Ser Baelor said. “They brought him here some hours before. I interrogated harbour guards; someone called Grey Worm sent you a message thanking you for the passage to Naath and saying that because you were the only one demanding justice for the queen, you should be the one to decide Jon Snow’s punishment. King Bran had sentenced him to the Wall, but the Unsullied felt it wasn’t enough.”  
Desmera nodded numbly.  
“How did you even catch the message, father?”, Ser Baelor glared at the mad old man angrily.  
“I’m still the lord of this House.”, Lord Leyton said proudly, without the slightest bit of remorse. “I have seen all of this in my glass candle, and Malora confirmed that the frog intestines predict this match will save the kingdom. She also sewed the glamour runes on the shirt. Finely done illusion magic, if I may boast!”  
Frog intestines. Illusion magic. Giving up all pretences of a lady, Desmera let her shoulders slump.  
“I’m ruined.”, she said, trying to breathe. “I will never find a husband. My House will die with me.”  
Ser Baelor’s face was filled with pity, Jon Snow appeared melancholic and still unwilling to do his duty but Malora patted her shoulder.  
“Don’t you worry.”, the madwoman said. “Your House will not end; I made sure of it. The timing was just right, and a fertility potion of false unicorn root, red clover, hogweed and wild nettles never fails to take! You will have a bastard before the year turns!”  
Desmera burst into tears.  
Through her miserable sobbing, she heard Jon Snow grind his teeth together.  
“No child of mine will ever grow up as a bastard.”, he snarled, sounding frightfully angry.


	2. The prince

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is not auspicious beginning, and Desmera learns that marrying a prince is nothing like she thought.

Desmera Redwyne married a prince in the Starry Sept. The High Septon officiated.

Jon Snow’s ratty black cloak on her shoulders smelled like a prison and sweat. Her eyes were puffy from crying and her husband looked moody. It was not a great beginning.  
  
“..one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.”, the High Septon finished.  
A silence fell over the sept. Then Ser Baelor cleared his throat:  
“A wedding feast is customary, and breakfast can be converted to the purpose, should you desire it.”  
“I appreciate your offer, but under the circumstances, I do not wish to spend another hour under your lord father’s roof. Once I get home, I will make some changes to our current trade agreements, namely the pricing of my fleet patrolling your waters.”, Desmera said chillingly.  
Ser Baelor nodded, looking ashamed. He should be! A true knight would keep his mad father properly under lock and key! In a case like this, nobody would be too upset if a little bit poison was included, too.  
“I shall inform my steward.”, he said.  
Turning her back to Ser Baelor, Desmera looked at Jon Snow. He still held her blue and burgundy cloak on his arm, but he had not said a single word except what was required by the ceremony.  
“You can send me to the Wall now.”, he said sadly.  
Desmera wondered if she should tell him to stop moping, but it did not feel right. He had done the honourable thing even though it was clear he loved someone else. It must have been hard. She did not know him, and what little she knew, terrified her. But she had to at least try to build a bridge. It was the only way to make this bearable.   
She took her Redwyne cloak from his arm and stood on her toes to wrap it around his shoulders. They were tense. Taking a step back, she said:  
“I did not swear fealty to King Bran, and I do not care about his judgements. Unsullied said I get to choose your punishment, and your punishment is to come home with me and do your duty as the Lord of the Arbor. I expect you to rule in my place when I’m at sea and to be a good father for any children we might have. You do not get to escape to the Wall and leave me alone to deal with this _mess_.”  
“I killed Daenerys. I wronged you.”, he whispered. “This is not right.”  
“We were both wronged and fooled. I could have acted differently.”, Desmera replied, uncomfortably aware of High Septon and Ser Baelor’s faces darkening when queen Daenerys’ murder was mentioned. “What is done is done. The past can’t be changed.”  
The discussion had taken a dangerous turn, and Desmera took Jon Snow’s arm, pulling him towards the door. As soon as they stepped through the doorway and the heavy door closed behind them, she gathered her skirts in her free hand and looked at Jon Snow.  
“My ship is in the harbour. I don’t trust any of them not to spread the word, and my lords blame you. None of them have seen what King’s Landing looks like. We need to leave.”  
He nodded, glancing behind his shoulder.  
  
When they hurried towards the harbour, she realized the true depth of this mess. Desmera had voted against the current king, separated her lands from the realm, got deposed by her own lords and wedded an outlaw Targaryen prince, who had murdered her neighbours’ chosen queen. This might not be the last time she was fleeing from former friends.

\--

It began on the first night. The journey from Oldtown to the Arbor took a full day from dawn to dusk if winds were kind, but the recent change of seasons made weather erratic. Cyclones from Summer Sea were always an issue in wintertime, even though they were much weakened before they hit the Arbor. Desmera could barely remember the last winter. Her home island was well shielded by a warm current, and winter meant nothing more but a change in fruits of the season. She had not planned to spend her wedding night standing soaking wet on the deck, steering her ship through a winter storm. Her first mate, Leo Flowers offered to take the wheel, but Desmera knew it was another test. The Spring Maid was the first command her lord father had given her, and the crew had seen her fail a thousand times; they still remembered the useless maiden who had wept when she cut her hands on a coarse rope. But Desmera was not that girl; she was the Lady Admiral of Redwyne Fleet, and the Spring Maid’s crew needed to see it.   
“Send a boy to serve dinner to prince Aegon and ask if he wants to bathe; at least this fucking rain is warm enough for bathwater.”, she swore, pulling hair from her mouth. By Mother, she hated the rain!  
“It’s your wedding night, lady Desmera.”, Flowers said.  
She spat the annoying lock from her mouth and wiped it behind her ear with the rest of her wet, clingy hair.   
“Prince Aegon married the Lady of the Arbor, Flowers. He understands what it means, just like my lady mother understood the responsibilities of my lord father. I will attend prince Aegon as soon as we enter the Redwyne Straits. The winds will calm down between islands.”  
“Aye, captain.”, Flowers replied. Desmera heard a hint of respect in his gruff reply and drew a quiet breath of relief. One shoal avoided tonight.

Her prediction of the storm ending was true. The winds calmed as soon as the ship sailed in the archipelago of smaller islands around Archipelago. By then, Desmera had stood at the ship wheel most of the night; she estimated it was close to the Hour of the Eel, but it was hard to tell the time before clouds cleared. She glanced at the sky, shivering in her soaked clothes, and sent a boy to wake up Flowers.  
“Tell the first mate to take the wheel. I must join prince Aegon now; the storm has kept him waiting for most of the night.”, she told him with a kind smile.  
“Yes, lady admiral!”, the boy said eagerly, and ran off. He looked a bit green on the face, and he’d been too frightened to sleep when the winds raged, but Desmera could not hold it against him. He would do better next time, just like she. He would grow up to be first mate, or a captain, and brag in his cups how he had been through a storm with his lady admiral, on her wedding night, too. Stories like that were soil for loyalty to grow. The Imp had not been entirely wrong in his claims.

When she tiptoed to her cabin, Jon Snow was already asleep. Or so Desmera thought. She saw a glimpse of white near the wall and leaned over the cot to pick up her shirt, when she was suddenly pulled off her feet and thrown. She was laying flat on the cot in her soaked clothes, and someone’s arm was pressing against her windpipe. She struggled to breathe, terrified, and then her eyes adjusted enough to see in the dark cabin. It was his long face looming over her, and his eyes were blank, like he wasn’t seeing her at all.  
“Jon", Desmera tried to call him. “Jon Snow.”  
He shook his head, but his eyes were still unfocused, and the weight of his arm was starting to hurt.  
“Aegon, it’s me! It hurts!”, she cried, and even though it was a pitiful sound, he seemed to hear. His expression was terrified, and he let her go instantly. Desmera gulped air in a panic, trying to calm down, but  
“I’m so sorry! I thought you were someone else – I’m so sorry, lady Desmera, were you hurt?”, he spoke fast. He was feeling her all over, like searching for injuries, and his voice sounded like he was as frightened as she.  
“It was a mistake.”, she said. “I didn’t think.. I didn’t say anything when I came in. Of course you would think it was someone trying to hurt you. You were in a war.”  
“I’m so sorry.”, he said. He was still holding her in the dark. She leaned against him, breathing deep and listening his heartbeat to calm down. It helped Desmera to calm down, too.  
“I’m sorry.”, he said again. “I’m not… You were so quiet. Others made no sound, either.”  
“It’s all right.”, Desmera said even though she didn’t know what he was talking about. But she didn’t want to ask. “From now on, I will say something, so you will know it’s me.”  
He made an agreeable noise, and she let the last of her fright slowly leave her body.  
“I’m afraid the cot is getting soaked.”, he said after a while. His arms were strong, and warm.   
“Undo the buttons on the back.”, Desmera advised. She leaned a bit forwards and found warm skin. His neck, likely, because there was beard against her cheek.   
“What should I call you, husband? Jon, or Aegon?”  
“Aegon, perhaps.”, he said after a consideration. “It would help… Not to bring the old ghosts into our marriage bed. She always called me Jon.”  
Desmera was pleased. She knew she was at disadvantage; the whole realm knew about Queen Daenerys’ ill-fated love with Jon Snow, and there had been this Ygritte woman too, but he was her husband now. She feared that comparisons were inevitable, but Desmera did not want to hear him call her Ygritte ever again in their marriage bed.  
“Aegon.”, she murmured softly. “Undo the buttons. It’s our wedding night, and I’m sorry I made you wait.”

“There is something important I need to tell you before we arrive to the Arbor. A family secret.”, she told Aegon in the morning.  
“It sounds worrying when you start like that. I had a brother in the Watch, Dolorous Edd, who said nothing good could come after those words, and he was right. But if you try to tell me I’m not Ned Stark’s bastard, I already know.”, he said. But his eyes were light, not cloudy, and for once Aegon was not moody. He was joking, she realized. Perhaps married life suited him, Desmera thought. She liked it very well. There was certainly a reason why cousin Margaery had wedded thrice.  
She smiled and ran her fingers through his dark locks. Their children would have terrible hair.   
“Not that, Aegon. It’s just my grandmother. She is not dead.”  
  
\--

Her grandmother was uncommonly quiet when Desmera returned home and laid the whole story out for her. Olenna Tyrell did not interrupt her even once. She sat in her wheelchair and listened, smoothing the embroidered blanket over her knees and said nothing.   
“And then we ran to the Spring Maid and came home.”, Desmera finished. “I fear I’ve made mess of it all, grandmother, a worse mess than I meant, but that King—”  
“Did you consummate the marriage after the wedding?”, grandmother’s question took her by surprise.  
“Well, yes—“, Desmera blushed, stammering.  
“Did it go well? How did he treat you?”  
“Grandmother!”  
“Stop playing a coy maiden to me, Desmera. You just told me that you bedded the boy and were forced to marry. Pretending innocence may work for a maiden, but it looks and sounds ridiculous from a married woman.”, the Queen of Thorns advised.  
“It was… enjoyable.”, Desmera muttered rebelliously, staring at her toes.  
“Good. Did he hurt you in any way? Was he cruel?”  
She shifted uneasily, and her grandmother’s voice hardened:  
“What happened, Desmera? You know I will not have another Joffrey Waters in my household.”  
“It was not like that! It was dark, and I came in the cabin without announcing myself. He thought I was someone else and jumped at me!”, Desmera disagreed, looking at her grandmother. “He apologized. It was a just mistake.”  
“I see.”, grandmother said, but something in her manner sat ill with Desmera. She took grandmother’s wheelchair, and began to push it forwards the garden path, away from any listening ears.  
“You can’t poison him, grandmother.”, she said forcefully.  
“Why would I? You did better than I expected. You caught the rightful heir to the throne and wedded him; I did the same thing to marry your grandfather. You could have used little more finesse in the King’s Landing, like pretending to accept the boy king, but I have to admit our last alliance with Lannisters left me permanently soured towards them. I’ve seen enough puppet kings for a lifetime. I never liked Tyrion Lannister, no matter who he served, and I expect not to like his new king, either.”  
Olenna looked around the garden, and waved her fingers. “There will be an awful lot of trouble, of course, but it is the way of the world. I’m not thrilled you lost the title of Lord Paramount, but it will serve you well. Without a title, you are not expected to attend the court.”  
“I would not go there in any case. Lys is more important. I’m negotiating prices with House Haen. They now own a full third of Lysene pillow houses after the fall of House Moqaros, and their wine is rubbish.”, Desmera sniffed.  
“Wise child.”, Olenna patted her hand. “You must focus on the fleet. It is the most important thing right now. As long as the fleet remains strong, and the crown doesn’t have a ship on their name, we will be perfectly safe on the Arbor. I understand your prince has not been taught how to manage a lordship; I will have him trained in no time. It will ease your mind to know things will run smoothly here while you are away.”

  
  
Even though grandmother had promised, there was still a mountain of work waiting for Desmera. It had always been the problem of the Arbor lordship; one could either run a fleet efficiently, or an island, but not both. Desmera apologized to Aegon, gave him a short tour in the castle and saw him settled in her lady mother’s chamber before Maester Ballabar pulled her in the solar and began to list all the matters demanding her attention.

She scarcely saw Aegon for three days. Then one night, she was walking back from the privy and saw a maid with a candle standing by his chamber door. Desmera slowed her steps, bristling and wondered if she had interrupted a nocturnal visit. Then she heard yelling from the chamber. Aegon was shouting something.  
“What are you doing here?”, Desmera asked sharply.  
“The prince has night terrors almost every night, m’lady, and he hit Manfryd when he tried to wake him up. Manfryd thought he might react better to a woman, m’lady, I mean no offence, but Manfryd’s eye is all black and I don’t want a black eye…”, the girl explained timidly, curtsying too many times.   
“I will attend the prince. Tell Manfryd not to send others in his place and go back to bed.”, Desmera took the candle from the maid, and waited until the girl had ran off. Drawing a deep, steadying breath, she slowly pushed the door open. He was shouting again.  
“Fall back! Fall back! Edd, no, no!!”  
“Aegon? Aegon, it’s me, Desmera. Your wife. You are having a bad dream.”, she said loudly, holding her candle high. “Aegon? Aegon, wake up. Wake up!”  
She kept her steps purposefully slow, lighting every lamp she came across, and kept calling him Aegon. Still, Desmera felt too vulnerable, knowing she was no match for him if he decided to jump on her again. When she saw him sitting up in the bed, and turning towards her, rubbing his eyes, she slowed her steps even more.  
“Aegon?”, Desmera asked softly, trying her best not to let her fear show. “You were shouting. Did you have a bad dream?”  
“The war.”, he replied, looking haunted. “I was in the battle of Winterfell, and Edd died.”  
“I’m sorry.”, she sat on his bed and set the candle on a table. “Is there anything I can do?”  
“Stay. Don’t leave me alone.”  
He clung to her with a strength of drowning man, pulling her shirt over her shoulders.   
“Don’t ever leave me alone.”, he whispered, and Desmera nodded, pressing kisses over the old scars on his chest. She wondered how he had gotten them, because they looked bad, but did not dare to ask.  


She had shared her bed with Aegon for a fortnight, and today Maester Ballabar had brought her a thimble cup of milk of the poppy like every month, but her moon’s blood was not here yet. It was too early to make assumptions, the Maester had reminded gravelly, but they both knew Desmera’s moon blood was never a day out of order. Feeling secretly giddy and hopeful, Desmera had embraced unexpected day off, and decided to spend it spying on her grandmother.

Most old castles on the Reach had a secret passage or two, originally meant for escaping a siege. Her castle had a rose-covered grille as a garden wall. It was much more convenient, because the secret passage was filled with spiders and grime. Desmera had not liked it at all.  
“…we knew that the Lannisters were coming. When Randall Tarly betrayed his vows, there was no hope of surviving. Desmera begged me to leave with her. But I’m old enough to know better. Lannisters are like small, cruel kittens. They like to play with their prey. If they had found Highgarden empty, they would have sought me out. So I told my guards to take my granddaughter to coast and bind her to ship’s mast if they had to.”, lady Olenna said. Desmera took a quiet step closer, and managed to find a spot where she could see her grandmother’s face, but not who she was talking with.  
“It was a valiant act.”, the voice of her husband replied.  
Lady Olenna shook her head, regarding him with slight annoyance.  
“You truly are Ned Stark’s son, boy, no matter who seeded you. There, I was prepared to die. I even drank the poison Jaime Lannister offered, and told him that I had poisoned his precious Joffrey. The look on Jaime Lannister’s face was priceless; I only mourn that I did not get to see Cersei’s. I was content to go. Do you know what that foolish child did?”  
Not waiting for Aegon to answer, she took a sip of her wine and continued:  
“As soon as Arryk and Erryk had taken her to coast, she ordered them to turn back. Or so I was told. All I know that I woke up on a ship’s deck, even stiffer than before, my mouth tasting like shit, and my granddaughter weeping over me.”   
“She told me that she had negotiated a costly deal with a Lyseni poisoner who traded in the King’s Landing, making sure that whatever Lannisters requested, did not work as promised. I died, but apparently only from waist down. I’m not particularly grateful to her, since I’m stuck in this uncomfortable chair and able to do even less than before, but I’ll have you know one thing, Jon Snow. I have my eye on you. You are not honourable Ned Stark like you want everyone to believe. You seduced my granddaughter to escape the Wall and find safety. If you fail her, I’ll get rid of you just like I got rid of Joffrey.”  
“I did not—”  
“Say whatever you will, but we both know the truth.”, lady Olenna’s voice was sharp. “My Margaery would never have fallen for your plot and wedded you just for a maidenhead – it can always be blamed on a horse riding - but Desmera is naïve. Her father was so upset over losing his sons that he attempted to turn her into a boy just to get an heir for his precious fleet. Neither me or my daughter had time to teach the poor girl anything. The world is not a kind place for queens whose kings die. Think of Robb Stark’s Volantene queen, or Elia of Dorne, or even your own grandmother. I considered feeding Desmera the moon tea in secret, but I changed my mind. Sometimes the only safety a woman can have is through her children, and I think this is one of those cases.”  
“I don’t see how having my children would make anyone safer.”, Aegon disagreed.  
Her sharp eyes searched his face for something, and she sighed, signalling him to leave.   
“I’ve had enough for today. You are the lord of the Arbor. Surely you have something else to do than to chat with an old woman.”, lady Olenna told firmly.  
“If you wish. I will come to see you again tomorrow.”, he said solemnly.  
Lady Olenna watched him go and remarked:  
“Speaking with him is even worse than trading barbs with the Lannisters. They, at least, understood when I mocked them.”  
Turning to look straight at Desmera, she added:  
“You can come out now, dear. Your hair clashes terribly with pink roses.”  
Feeling a bit annoyed, she circled through the garden door as instructed.  
“No need to look so mortified, dear. You are hardly the first person to spy through the rose wall. With Redwyne hair, it gets considerably easier after one turns grey. But shouldn’t you be in bed?”, grandmother studied Desmera from top to toe.  
“Not yet.”, she replied, unable to hide her smile. “It seems I’m a bit late.”  
“I see.”, grandmother said, and her tired, wrinkled face bloomed in a soft, gentle smile. “I hope you will be very late, my dear. It would please all of us so very, very much.”  
“I hope so too.”, Desmera admitted, and her joy faded. “Perhaps it would make Aegon happier, too. I worry about him, grandmother. He is not well. He has terrible nightmares, and he is rarely happy.”  
“Does he love you yet?”, grandmother asked softly.  
“No. I don't think he ever will. He is never cruel, or unkind, but.. I feel he reaches for me in our bed because I’m there and he needs someone, not because I’m me.”, Desmera whispered. “He asked me not to call him Jon, to keep old ghosts away. I don’t know what I should do.”  
Her grandmother was quiet.  
“I fear war never ends for some men, Desmera. Some come home without their arm, or leg, while others come in a box full of bones. Your husband is not the first, nor will be the last man who dreams of war too vividly.”  
“I’m still worried. The servants don’t want to wake him up. He hit Manfryd, thinking he was an enemy. What if it gets worse?”, Desmera demanded. Her anxiety felt like a hard lump in her chest. It weighed too much and strained her flesh. She was not sure what she was asking from grandmother. Help, perhaps? Or a relief from fear like Olenna had offered to cousin Margaery? She did not know.  
Olenna closed her old, spotted hand over hers, and said:  
“You are the last of my House, Desmera, and I will do anything to protect you. But if you carry a Targaryen heir, that sullen boy is the only one standing between you and anyone wishing to sit on the Iron Throne. A man like him will fight for his children even if he doesn’t love you, and I won’t see you die.”


	3. A feud of six thousand years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Desmera travels to Lys and builds an unexpected alliance. Unfortunately, things have not gone well at home.

Darkness was different in Lys. It was filled with soft, inviting lights of pillowhouses and perfumes floating in warm night air. Sometimes Desmera wondered how things would have turned out if Horas and Hobber had lived. Many young men had lost days and months in Lyseni pillowhouses, and her brothers had never been immune to pretty faces. They both had developed a crush on Margaery and made fools of themselves. Horas and Hobber had been knightly, like all young lords of the Reach, and Desmera knew they never would have allowed her to have anything to do with family business. Perhaps she would have ended up in some small keep in the Westlands, embroidering in boredom until her fingertips bled. Hopefully not as a wife of a landless Lannister knight. Desmera shuddered. She was sad to have lost her brothers, of course, but there was no denying that she liked how things were now.

“We will pay a visit to The Veiled Lady.”, she told her guards, and waited until Merrell Florent appeared from a sedan chair seating two, gesturing her to climb inside. The captain of the guard gave a nod to the Redwyne soldiers, and they moved in a formation around the chair. Merrell waited until Desmera was sitting on the bench, and then closed the curtains, sitting on opposite seat.  
“Are you well, my lady?”, he asked worriedly. “A place like the Veiled Lady is no good for you right now. The men are saying we should head home.”  
Normally, Desmera would have liked to walk instead of travelling behind thin silk curtains of a sedan chair, but things had changed when she missed her moon’s blood for third time. It was not something she could keep secret in close quarters of a ship. She trusted her men, but they were men accustomed to spending their days at sea, away from their families. They rarely saw their own wives pregnant, and their babes were usually walking next time they went home. It was no wonder they were uneasy.  
“I need to pay someone, and as soon as we’re done there, I will give orders to sail back home.”, she said, patting Merrell’s hand in reassuring manner. The boy looked relieved. Her father had taken Merrell as his squire when Horas and Hobber were imprisoned in King’s Landing. After lord Paxter died, Merrell had turned into something between a page or a sworn sword for Desmera, but he was still a boy of thirteen and her pregnancy made him anxious. The boy wanted nothing more than deliver her to home where her safety was Aegon’s responsibility. She could not fault Merrell for that.  
She had always been careful, but now she knew she was carrying the heir of her House under her heart, and it made her anxious. A cup of poison, a piece of spoiled bread, a stray arrow or a stab of knife in dense crowds. There were hundred ways to die, and she wanted to go home where two hundred warships blocked every threat. Even though Desmera remembered her lord husband as restless and sometimes frightening person, she would have slept easier knowing Aegon woke up at slightest noise and kept a sword close at hand. Merrell tried his best, but he was thirteen and had never killed anyone.  
  
She weighed a purse of coin in her hand, and then slid it back inside her cloak. Even if she was anxious to go home, some things could not be left undone. When Desmera had realized there was no doubt she was going have a baby, she had pushed to finish the negotiations. She would have left already, but Magister Haen had to throw a banquet to celebrate their agreement. Every Reacher lady grew up knowing the value of good manners, but sometimes Desmera felt that Essosi courtesies were so numerous that they caused more frustration than appreciation. She had worked hard to keep the wine trade flowing despite the changing king and queens, and House Haen was one of her first customers. Her lord father had focused on military might of the fleet, leaving the actual trading for his vassals, but Desmera could not follow in his footsteps. What she had was a sharp mind for numbers and a good memory for learning new languages. Great Houses had been built with less, and she had to make do.  
The sedan chair stopped moving, and Merrell opened the door for her, helping her down.  
“We’ll stay for an hour at most. Wait for me.”, Desmera instructed the carriers and entered the Veiled Lady.

The Veiled Lady was a pillow house near the docks, decorated with coloured glass lanterns. There were dark corners, beautiful hosts, even a small labyrinth for adventurous visitors looking for something new. Rich people who could afford to visit a place like this were easily bored and always seeking for new thrills. No, Desmera thought, glancing at two silver-haired beauties peeking behind the corner. The younger of two noticed her looking at them and blew her a kiss on her white palm. Horas and Hobber would not have survived in Lys.  
She pushed the thought of her dead brothers aside and smiled at the madame, who waited to welcome them.   
“Welcome! It has been a long time since I last saw you, lady Redwyne.”, madame Shaylaa declared loudly. In truth, Desmera had been here last week in that stupid banquet, but it was not prudent to tell in case there were affliates of House Saan listening. Their whole family was full of pirates, and if there was one group Desmera did not like, it was pirates.  
“It has been too long.”, she murmured in Lyseni. “Your house is lovely as always, madame Shaylaa. I cherish the time we have spent together in the past.”  
“Do you?”, the madame asked, taking Desmera’s arm conversationally and guiding her up the stairs. “Then you must come and see my latest offerings. I have a girl you might like, very knowledgeable and eager to please. Or a boy, since I have heard you have finally taken a husband.”  
“News travel fast.”, Desmera was unpleasantly surprised.  
“They travel very fast.”, madame agreed. “My cousin in Westeros heard that there were Dornishwomen found from alive from the ruins of Red Keep. There is quite a lot of ruckus, because they apparently murdered the former prince of Dorne and everyone believed Queen Cersei poisoned them. Now Dorne demands their execution.”  
The truth was that madame Shaylaa had a side business. A rather important side business. She was a daughter of an alchemist, sold to a pillow house when her husband failed in a business, and the person who organized Alchemist’s Guild of Lys’ sales. Madame Shaylaa had supplied poisons for House Redwyne for last five years. She had sold grandmother the poison which killed Joffrey, and she had arranged that any poisons sold in King’s Landing did not work as well as they should.  
“In light of recent events, I would like to continue my patronage.”, Desmera said, pretending not to pay any attention to Ellaria Sand’s survival.  
“It will, of course, cost you. But all good things in life are expensive. Life is expensive.”, madame Shaylaa noted pleasantly.  
Desmera pulled out the heavy purse of coin from her bosom and offered it to madame Shaylaa.   
“I fear it is.”, she sighed. The Lannister Imp and everyone else in King’s Landing would continue to receive second-class poisons for next year. In Desmera’s opinion, it was money well spent. Poisoning people was not good, and King’s Landing did not need any supplies. Unfortunately, cutting the court off entirely was too expensive for her purse, but selling them ineffective poisons was a good compromise for both parties. The alchemists had to sell their second-rate stock for someone. Desmera only encouraged them.  
“In my house, you get what you pay for. A very special person is waiting for you, my dear lady.”, madame Shaylaa purred, and opened her a door marked with a pink shell. “I will collect you after three turns of hourglass.”  
  
She pushed Desmera inside a lush, silk-covered front room and turned the first hourglass upside down before retreating back to the hall. Desmera relaxed when she heard a key being turned in a lock behind her. A scented bath and a massage were something she had looked forward to all day. Her feet were hurting and her lower back felt a bit stiff. She glanced at the line of hourglasses on the front room wall and almost purred.  
  
Filled with pleasant anticipation, she entered the bedchamber and stopped on the threshold. There was an Ironborn lounging on her bed, and her bath attendant was nowhere in sight.  
“_You_ are definitely not what I ordered. I wanted a pretty sailor, not a sour orange grape.”, Yara Greyjoy remarked, looking down her nose at her.  
“Oh, Seven, no!”, Desmera exclaimed.

\--

“I could kill you where you stand.”, the Ironborn twat noted.  
“You have no weapons.”, Desmera said, going through a gilded box of oils. “I know madame Shaylaa confiscates them before allowing entry.”  
“If you were anyone else, I would suggest you should look for hidden weapons, but that hair does not do it for me.”, Yara Greyjoy grimaced. “To think I paid a fortune for this!”  
“I have a thousand ships, while you can hardly come up with two-hundred boats from your woodless islands. Considering our positions, I understand if insulting my hair is best you can do. Shame is heavy burden on one’s tongue.”, Desmera said, keeping her voice pleasant.

Desmera opened a bottle of saffron crocus and sniffed it. The scent was revoltingly heavy, almost making her gag, and she plopped the cork back. Rummaging through the box for less offensive scent, she found a small box of dried blue winter rose petals, and quickly shut the lid.

Purposefully ignoring her unwanted companion, Desmera emptied the box of petals in her bathwater, which was still steaming. Even though Greyjoys chose kraken as their sigil, Desmera knew their true nature. They were not krakens, but sharks who would move to kill at first sign of weakness. She would have to continue her evening exactly as planned, ignoring the Greyjoy in her bed, and have her bath to ever get out from this room alive.   
  
When blue petals began to soak, giving out a sweet yet soft scent, she began to unbutton her dress. Desmera knew that the Greyjoy was staring at her and probably making lewd faces, but she kept ignoring her. She folded the soft, loose blue gown on a chair and took off her sandals.  
“You are pregnant.”, Greyjoy stated.   
Desmera tensed. Feeling her control crack, she let her hair fall to hide her face and sank beneath the water as slowly as she could force herself.  
“My brothers are dead, and my House needs an heir. You face the same obligation.”, Desmera replied. Hiding under the surface made her confident enough to look at Yara, who was laying on her stomach on the bed and watching her.  
“Tyrion Lannister has not figured out yet where Jon Snow went. I wondered whether I should tell him, but perhaps I won’t.”, Greyjoy’s next remark took her by surprise.  
Desmera’s mask shattered, and she felt pure panic. She did not want to be here, she wanted to be home, or at least on her ship. Her face betrayed her fear, and she knew Yara Greyjoy had seen it, too.  
“Why?”, she whispered, feeling weak.  
“I thought what you said in that meeting. And I should have said it too.”, Yara replied, sitting up. “I never liked Jon Snow. I knelt for Daenerys, because Euron sided with Lannisters, and I wanted him dead. Also, the dragons.”  
“Only a fool stands against three dragons.”, Desmera agreed, still unsettled.  
“Aye. But it is another thing to kneel to strength. My ironborn don’t understand why they should kneel to a cripple in a wheelchair. My little brother died protecting that boy, yet Bran the Broken never honoured his sacrifice. They put people like fat Tarly or that sellsword in Small Council for their supposed feats in the war, but where is our place? Why a sellsword, who tried to shoot the Imp, gets Highgarden and becomes a Master of Coin, while Theon—”  
Desmera’s bathwater splashed on the mosaic floor.  
“What?! A sellsword getting Highgarden? My Highgarden?”, she demanded, standing up. As soon as she got out of here, she would find a raven and send a word to her grandmother to do something about it!   
Yara Greyjoy nodded. The woman stood up and strode to face her:  
“That, and much more. I know a lot of what goes on in King’s Landing. I know you hold Jon Snow now and have no love for the Imp or the cripple king. Neither do I. Are you going to put him on that throne to become a queen? ”  
“Tyrells tried it thrice. I’m not cousin Margaery; I don’t want to be someone’s consort.”, Desmera said harshly, putting on a bathrobe. “I like my life as it is. I’m the Lady of the Arbor in my own name. My islands are rich, and I command my own fleet. If I wanted to be a queen, I would be the Queen of the Arbor, like in the days of the old. As long as Bran the Broken doesn’t have a dragon to burn my ships, he can’t force me to kneel.”  
“Brave words, but you can’t command your fleet in a battle.”, Yara Greyjoy stated. “No matter how you try to speak like a commander, you are not one. When every other fleet in Westeros comes to your waters, your ships will scatter without a strong leader. Jon Snow won’t be any use for you. Northerners can’t tell the bow from the stern.”  
She looked at Desmera and smiled. Her sharp, hawk-like nose was too big for her face, but her smile was wicked.  
“I could teach you to own that title. We could call it an exchange.”  
“An exchange of what?”, Desmera asked carefully. She knew that Yara Greyjoy had been raised in similar circumstances from age of fourteen or fifteen, when Balon Greyjoy lost his sons in a rebellion, but unlike Desmera, Yara’s father had lived long enough to finish her training. There was no denying that Yara was an able commander and a fighter. She had raided the Reach coast for years.  
“Iron Islands are bare. We can’t live on what they give. But your fleet is blocking our route to south, and the North has nothing worth raiding. My father tried. We lost lives and gained only pinecones, cobblestones and turnips. The ironborn need fertile land, peace and victory. I could put my ships behind cripple king and take them from you, paying the iron price, but you are not as soft as I expected. If you were, you would have run away, screaming, as soon as you walked in here. I don’t think it’s worth effort to fight you for cripple king since he is so stingy with his rewards.”, Yara said calculatingly.   
Desmera waited, dripping water on the tiles.  
“I propose an alliance. I will teach you to lead your fleet to a battle, and you will help me to find a new way to find riches for my people. I know your wealth is not from the wine alone, but I need someone to convince merchants to trust me. If we combined forces, no king in Westeros could challenge that naval power. We could crush Lannister fleet in a month.”, Yara declared.  
If Yara Greyjoy was honest, this could change everything. But Desmera knew alliances were fickle.   
“Give your firstborn daughter to my son, and you will have your alliance.”, she said firmly, apologizing to a babe who had barely began to move under her heart. Then she offered her hand to a sworn enemy.  
“I don’t even have children yet.”, Yara Greyjoy noted with faint amusement.   
“My son can’t wait for his bride until he is old and grey. I expect a formal betrothal before declaring our alliance to my people.”, Desmera pushed, still holding out her hand. “We need to rebuild after the war before taking on another fight against the Iron Throne. I’m tired of war, and death, and I’ve seen too much to believe in a story. I believe in actions. A marriage between our children would end a feud of six thousand years between your people and mine. _We could change everything.”  
_“We will.”, Yara said fiercely, and her hand clasped Desmera’s.

\--

It was a month later when Desmera finally came home. She had not meant to be gone for so long, but it was the lot of the ruler of the Arbor; in her childhood, she had never seen her lord father for longer than a week or two. There were people in the harbour, waiting, when Spring Maiden slowly glided closer to the dock. Desmera had dressed for the occasion, changing her breeches and linen shirt to a Lysene silk gown in dark blue. She stood at the rail, watching the people cheering, but could not spot a familiar long face and dark hair. Her heart slumped. Perhaps he did not know. But the islands were well guarded; the Spring Maiden had been spotted a day before and a word sent to the Arbor as soon as her ship sailed past the guard post on the Mermaid’s Palace. Aegon must have known she was coming home, yet he was not here.  
She raised her hand, and waved at smallfolk, feeling the familiar weight of anxiety setting on her chest.

-

  
It was Maester Ballabar who stood at the castle doors, welcoming her home. Servants had gathered at the door, but there was no sign of Aegon. There were many familiar faces missing; at least one fourth of the castle servants were not there.  
“Where is my lord husband?”, Desmera asked.

-

There was a new cottage in grandmother’s garden, separated by a tall iron fence. The timber was still fresh, not yet darkened by rain or weather. Desmera stood like a statue when Maester Ballabar took a key from his belt and turned it in the lock.  
“There was nothing else we could have done. It was Amaryllis who found Manfryd’s body.”, Maester Ballabar told in quiet voice. “Lady Olenna took over. She paid the man’s family and dismissed every servant she deemed untrustworthy.”  
“Is he well taken care of?”, Desmera asked, her lips suddenly dry.  
“Lady Olenna made inquiries. The Faith has experience in caring poor and feeble-minded. They sent us an elder brother, who led a septry in the Quiet Isle before the uprising.”  
“Uprising?”, Desmera repeated, little hairs on her neck standing up.  
“There is much to explain, my lady, but you must think of your child. An expecting mother should be wary of too many shocks, as anxiety might upset the balance of humours. One thing at time.”, Maester Ballabar warned.   
Ah, those damned humours again. Desmera did not like the sound of them any better now than when Mad Malora had spoken about them, so she unhappily obeyed.  
“The Elder Brother is taking care of prince Aegon. He has much understanding in issues with broken men, and I believe your lord husband is in good hands.”, Maester Ballabar reassured.  
Desmera nodded numbly. She felt tears prickling in her eyes, but she could not cry. If she began now, it would never end.  
  
The little house was cheery and well-built, smelling of fresh wood, but a prison all the same. She met the Elder Brother, who was a tall man with shrewd eyes, and build of a knight. The iron gates around the cottage were too high for a man to climb, and the pink roses and vines were not grown enough to hide sturdiness of the iron fence. Inside there was a common room, a small chamber for the Elder Brother and a large chamber with a wolf knocker nailed on the door. Desmera wrapped her numb fingers around it, and the noise echoed in her ears oddly.   
“Enter.”, she heard a voice inside, and she breathed in small, sharp breaths which felt like she was inhaling broken glass.   
“He is doing fine today, lady.”, Elder Brother encouraged her in deep voice. Desmera glanced at him, then at Maester Ballabar, who looked less certain, and then pushed open the door.  
  
Aegon sat by the window, looking tired and sad. When she stepped in, he turned to look at her. His grey eyes widened, and his mouth opened. He looked at Desmera from top to toe, and then again. A smile began from his eyes, brightening the grey, and showing the first faint laugh lines in their corners. It lit up his face, and his smile was wide and open. He stood up, his arms open, and this time she was not afraid when he scooped her in his arms, hugging her tightly.   
“Hello.”, Desmera said shyly, looking up at him.  
“I didn’t know.”, he said, eyes on the curve of her stomach. “I never thought I would be allowed to see you. I didn’t know you were --- But I am glad. I’m glad beyond words.”  
It was then when the tears she had held at bay started falling. Desmera began to weep for cruelty of it all. For the child, whose father was broken by war. For herself, and the responsibility she would have to carry alone. For the iron gates, and a knight caretaker, who were needed for Aegon’s own safety as well as others’, and for these unexpected flashes of a good man he had been before dragon queen and the Imp broke him. She would have wanted to marry that man. Every maiden with any sense would have.   
“Please don’t cry.”, he said, wiping her eyes with his sleeve. “It is all right. I’m well treated.”  
“I was away in Lys.”, she hiccupped. “I would have come sooner if I knew. I only arrived today.”  
His eyes were bright and desperate when he looked at her.  
“I want to see him, or her, if you allow. Through the gate if you feel it is not safe otherwise. I just… I have broken almost every vow I ever made. The only one I managed to keep was when I promised myself to never father a bastard. I don’t want my child grow up without knowing who his parents are, or that he is loved.”  
“You didn’t know your parents?”   
“No. My uncle lied to me for my whole life and sent me to Night’s Watch. _You shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children.”,_ he recited the Night’s Watch oath.  
“How old were you?”, Desmera asked.  
“Fourteen.”, he replied.   
“No.”, she said, tears falling fresh again. “I will not keep your child from you, Aegon. It would be needless and cruel. If you promise me you will do your best to be a good father and put their safety first, I will never keep them from you.”__  
  



End file.
